II. The Surface
The rifle in my hands is old, the one I have kept from my initial recruitment. The barrel, though functional, is rusted and beaten, the paint worn to bronze. The hilt does not exist anymore, lost in yet another desperate fight for survival amongst my own species. The trigger, like my leg, must be greased, though not quite as frequently. If I fail in this task, it will stick, and my ammo clip will remain full until I gather enough strength to nearly break the thing off. Fortunately, the weapon has been cleaned—though not by me, so I am sure to check it before I advance across the desolate plain.
The other marines troop behind me, the unspoken leader, worn by ages of unceasing conflict. The kid is last of them all, staggering about. This is his first combat mission; I have no doubt about that. Such a pity. This will also be his last. It is only by miracles that I have survived for twenty-four long years in the service, but those same miracles served to bar me from promotion, off the battlefield and into the relative safety of the war rooms.
Explosions echo throughout the barren landscape, and I turn my head to gaze at a large volcano in the distance. Some explosions will get too near. The volcano will no doubt explode, covering us with burning magma. Several wraiths are destroyed, courtesy of the local Zerg spore colonies, lethal anti-aircraft organic weaponry, known by many of my colleagues as "Lethal Fart Juice." Ah, the things we do to keep our spirits high.
The enemy is nearly in sight now, and my unused hand slowly drifts toward the handle of my weapon, finger itching to pull the trigger. By God, there is no feeling like the one you receive after blowing the head off of a Zergling. Especially when said Zergling devoured your best friend's face. Perhaps that is why I stay secluded, to myself. I don't want to risk another loss like that.
A line of Firebats advances, spraying the enemy with flame. Marines back them up with cover fire, wrapping the Zerg counterattack with a barrage of bullets.
"Did we miss it?" one of my companions asks, looking around questioningly. "They look to be scattering already!" I shook my head. Fucking newbs. I crouch at the ground, and pass my hand over the dirt. Something stirs. I point my rifle at the ground. "Burrows!" I scream over the din, and open fire.
Blood spurts from the ground, from the Zergling that was waiting for ambush under the soil. This makes the rest under the ground realize we've found them, and hundreds—no, thousands pop up from the dirt, dirt that we thought had been just dirt. Now we are surrounded. Shit!
I take aim at the nearest Zergling and pour bullet upon bullet down its muzzle. An eyeball pops from its socket and lands on my nose. The white fluid grips my nostrils. I brush it away angrily and turn on the next 'ling. The soldier next to me is dragged to the ground. I can't stop firing to try and save him, or they will get me too. Although we have the same goal, it's still every man for himself once the war begins. He is dragged into the horde of Zerglings, and the last glimpse of him I see is his face, as the Zerglings bite away his cheeks and lips while tearing apart his stomach and groin.
The kid sees it too and screams in horror, but I am the only one who hears. The mass of Zerglings is immense, our small circle of troops getting smaller by the minute as the 'lings close in. I can hear the screech of Mutalisks in the distance, and know that I am doomed unless reinforcements arrive. I aim my weapon towards the sky and open fire on the scourge of forces that fly about.
Then I hear a different, lower pitched screech, and recognize it as the engines of a dropship (or two?) and turn my head to the south, where reinforcements approach, escorted by a squadron of valkyries. Their cluster rockets dispatch of the Mutalisks easily. . . almost too much so. Medics and Firebats and tanks drop down from the dropships. My jaw drops when I see the tanks. They weren't supposed to arrive until the second wave! Had it been so long already?
The Zerglings are easy enough to deal with now, as we are not surrounded any more. The attack is doing better than I could have hoped.
Or is it? I look around and see only a few ragtag members of our army remaining. Perhaps a maximum of 70 survived the Zerg's first wave, out of our initial 1240. (155 dropships were launched, each loaded with 8 men.) The tanks surge forward, and many go into siege mode. I spot SCVs constructing bunkers to live in, signs of imminent occupation. Hydralisks squeal in the distance, and I know they are coming.
But the question remains: How do these Zerg maintain order without their Overmind? Is there another driving force behind the Zerg?
And then suddenly, the bunker nearest me explodes, throwing me to the ground amidst a loud echo of response cannonfire.